


and i'm so furious at you (for making me feel this way)

by orphan_account



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Sebastian Stan - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Pet Names, Power Dynamics, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 14:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20658509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sebastian’s got a big mouth, but you forgive him anyways. Who ever said love wasn't complicated?





	and i'm so furious at you (for making me feel this way)

**Author's Note:**

> just a little thing i once wrote... pure self-indulgence... enjoy ;)

The sound of your palm against his face shocks you both into silence. The crash of it echoes in your ears like water rushing down around you.

Sebastian’s eyes are unfocused for an eon before they narrow in on you, his entire expression morphing into something strange and foreign. His jaw is loose, his lips parted, and his mouth ajar as his gaze moves over your face, their touch on your skin intimate and heated.  
  
"What—?" you splutter, your voice nearly failing you. "What the hell was that? Why would you say that?"

His lashes shift over his irises. “Fuck—” he breathes. The word is dragged out of him, not like an expletive, but a plea for mercy. His face is vaguely flushed with the intensity you can feel building in the air between the two of you. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m—” He can’t finish his sentences, he’s cutting himself off like he can’t help it.

For a man usually so verbose it would seem odd, save for the fact that there's something you can’t quite place settling into his expression. His breathing is faintly off-beat, you notice. You want to repeat your question — _ why? _ — but a twist in your gut tells you not to. So you hesitate in this moment, your heart pounding timidly as though it sits on the edge of a knife.

Sebastian, still watching you with those blue-grey eyes, takes both of your hands in his larger ones and sinks to his knees in front of you.

He’s an actor, you think to yourself suddenly, he’s an_ actor _ for a living.

But there’s such a genuineness to his movements, to the emotions on his face, that you can’t believe he’s being anything less than sincere. After all, he’s kneeling on the hardwood floor, his thumbs pressed against the pulse of your wrists. That means something, doesn’t it? It’s supposed to mean something.

The something, whatever it is, rests in your throat, plugging it up.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his register so low that it sounds like a deep purr, like it started from his chest and worked its way up and out. “I’m real sorry, baby. I shouldn’t have said that, it was a mistake. I should not have said that to you.”

God, your chest is suddenly _ aching_. The way he looks at you — you want him to pull you into his arms. But you’re _ mad_, you are; you’re upset with him. He may be apologizing, but you still want to be mad, you can’t let it go that easily. You do not want to be the kind of woman that lets her man have that kind of control. You do not want to be the kind of woman who caves to sweet words and a soft touch.

The rhythm of his thumbs brushing against your skin, so gentle, is faintly hypnotic. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, his breath puffing lightly against your forearms as he pulls your hands closer to him. “I don’t want to make you mad at me. I don’t want to disappoint you like that.”

It doesn’t sit right. You pull one of your hands away in a jerky motion — you see that expression flitter across his face again, the one you can’t quite place.

“Sorry.” His now empty hand falls limp to his side, the palm facing you. He rocks back minutely onto his heels, chagrined. The way his body shifts — not quite energetically, but not in a guilty way, either — reads strangely.

His other hand, the right one, is still clasped around your left one. You can’t seem to pull that one away, allowing Sebastian to keep you tethered to him

“How do I make this up to you? How do I convince you that I mean it?”

It sounds like he’s pleading. That’s what you know those words to mean — you’ve seen it on TV, you’ve heard it in real life. But everything — the way he holds your hand, the way he looks at you — it sinks in your stomach like a stone.

You don’t know what’s holding you back. Perhaps some misplaced sense of feminism, some doubt in his affections for you? Your brain anxiously probes you for a deeper reason: does he even know why you’re mad? Does he know why you found what he said so offensive?

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you feel your resolve weaken, your natural reaction to him when he addresses you with such fondness. “_Please_. Help me out here. I need you.”

You’re faltering. You don’t like it, how it feels almost against your will. “Sebastian…”

He tugs at your hand, almost childlike. “Forgive me? I know I’m an idiot. You make me want to be better.”

It burns, this thing in your throat. Your eyes want to well up with the fierceness of it. He is a plaything under your regard, asking to be molded. Something in you recognizes this imbalance, the one that exists purely in this space of time in which he opened his mouth and fell to his knees before you.

Your fingers itch to clasp themselves against his. You want to touch his face with your fingertips, to graze your thumb over that full bottom lip. You don’t like to be the one in charge, not in a relationship, but your head is dizzy all at once with this feeling of holding something over him. Something he wants. What he wants, namely, being _ you_.

“I don’t know.” Honestly, you don’t. You haven’t been this unsure about where you stood with him since he first laid eyes on you and chased you down to make you his. But that initial anxiety — of not being pretty enough, of not being good enough — is worlds away from this new anxiety. This is born of something else.

Sebastian makes bad jokes sometimes; he runs his mouth more than he ought to. You know this, you’ve lectured him often enough about it. But this is the first time he’s said something like this to you. It’s different, isn’t it? It feels different.

“Please.” A soft breath against your fingertips as he presses them to his lips.

There’s a moan echoing in your mind, your own voice, one that recalls this exact intonation — _ please _ — every time he touches you. You want to, you _ want_, so badly.

Your name whispers out into the air between your hand and his lips, and you’re nearly done for.

“Tell me you forgive me.” Still not a demand, but a plea. Spoken into the uneasy space in your lungs, his request settles in and flutters around like a lost butterfly.

“I forgive you.” The words shock you both — his eyes widen like gaping mouths, the blue-grey irises swallowing you whole as you fall into them.

He tugs your hand downwards and you follow the motion, dropping to your knees in front of him. He towers like that, just above you, his natural line of sight inches above your own, but his eyes are focused on you. The vulnerability remains in the arch of his back, the curve of his shoulders. He is yours.

“Sweetheart,” he says, his eyes glassy and glistening and _ beautiful_. “Let me show you how much you mean to me. How damn grateful I am to have you.”

Your breath catches as he leans in to nuzzle gently along your jawline, his unkempt scruff tickling against your cheekbone as he ghosts his lips over the veins and muscles of your neck. One of your hands is still clasped in his; his other hand rests softly on your forearm, his fingers tracing patterns across your skin. Your free hand moves to touch at the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

“I wanna take my time with you,” he continues, the warmth of his words washing down the column of your neck and into the hollows of your collarbone. His hand releases yours, his fingers crawling gently up your forearms to tug lightly on the straps of your camisole. “Take me to bed, baby.”

You oblige and allow yourself to stand. He looks up at you almost adoringly. His hand reaches for yours, the tips of his fingers brushing against your palm. You take his hand, watching as he pulls himself up slowly, like a cat stretching its limbs. His pupils are dilated, you notice. His breathing is shallower than normal. You give his hand a quick squeeze and he smiles a bit in response.

“Bedroom,” you say breathlessly. There are flyaway hairs stuck to your warm cheeks, your moist lips. You’re still slightly unsure where your role lies in all of this. Usually Sebastian is the one to pull you into his arms, into his bed. You have the feeling he wants you to lead, to take the apology and twist it into a demand to hold over his head, but you’re not sure how to begin.

He regards you with a fevered intensity that sends tingles across your neck and down your chest. You resist the urge to rub your thighs together as you bite down softly on your lower lip. You enjoy seeing his eyes dip down to the motion, drawn by the boldness of it. You’re not typically like this, he knows. You’re not very forward or flirty when it comes to sex, although you can throw down a witty retort in casual conversation when the mood strikes you.

In the brief respite of silence between you both, you can sense the hesitation blended with the sudden shift in the air as your courage expands outwards. Suddenly you feel your resolve strengthen. You tighten your grip on his left hand and pull, walking yourself slowly backwards towards the bedroom, your gaze fixed on his blue-grey eyes as you tug him towards you.

You don’t look over your shoulder and you don’t pause, trusting that you know the layout of the apartment well enough to make it, or at least that he would warn you if you were about to crash into the wall and make a fool of yourself. Sebastian looks as though he wants to say something to this new, confident you, but he follows quietly. The only sound is of your feet shuffling across the hardwood as you lure him to your shared room.

Sebastian’s gaze flickers from where he was watching his measured footsteps to your flushed, aroused face. You jerk your gaze away and turn around, pulling both of you through the threshold of the doorway and into your bedroom. As soon as you pass through you drop his hand. “Shut the door,” you say, more confidently than you feel. “Please,” you add, because you’re still yourself, and you’re not rude.

He closes the door gently, holding the knob and clicking it into place. Then he faces you again and takes a few steps forward, only to be met with your palm pressing against his shoulder, which twitches against the resistance your hand offers. He stops in place, staring. Your breathing is so loud you’re sure he must be able to hear it. You can feel the strain of your lungs as your heart increases its pace. Your thumb brushes down along his collarbone, tracing a path towards the hollow in his neck.

In the peripherals of your vision you can see a faint, stiff outline in his jeans. The power that you now realize you have over him is a heady feeling.

You close your hand into a fist, bunching the soft fabric of his grey crew neck in between your fingers and in your palm. You give it a little tug, jerking the material once before releasing it. The shirt is still wrinkled from where you gripped it. You take another few steps back and sit down at the foot of the bed, waiting.

He reaches down for the hem of his shirt and pulls it off as you watch. The stretch of his abdomen as he strips is insanely attractive, and you fixate on the movement of the muscles there, flat and lean as they flex.

When he’s done, he tosses the shirt aside. And then he cocks an eyebrow at you, as though to ask ‘_what’s next_?’. You resist the urge to giggle at the ridiculous look on his face. It reminds you of Lance Tucker.

You scoot backwards on the bed, tugging off your shorts but leaving your camisole on. “Come here,” you say, beckoning with your hand. You tuck your feet up underneath your thigh, sliding your ass so far back that you’re practically on top of the pillows behind you, and adjust your hair over your shoulders. The way he looks at you — like he’d do anything to please you — makes you feel powerful. You feel sexy and uninhibited. He moves close enough that his legs are now pressed against the edge of the bed, and you look up at him innocently.

“You really sorry?” you ask.

“I am,” he promises fervently. “I don’t deserve you, baby. You’re too good to me.”

“You’re a mess,” you say, your voice dropping to nearly a whisper. “You’re going to turn me into one, too.”

His legs fold, his knees pressing against the bed as he crawls towards you, so close. He’s not touching you, but you can feel the intense body heat radiating off his skin as he starts to surround you. His knees are a scant inch away from your own, his lean arms braced around your hips as he looks up at you.

You press a fingertip to the point of his nose and push back until he straightens. Then you reach around your waist and peel your camisole off, raising it over your head. You toss it aside quickly. You want his hands on you so badly you’re nearly trembling with the need.

He’s watching the movement so attentively, his eyes wandering across the parts of your body that he cannot touch. You smile gently, stretching and preening just a tad under his intent gaze.

“You’re gorgeous.” His fingers are twitching on the bedspread, his hips shifting restlessly in the confines of his jeans. “Can I touch you?”

You reach for his right hand, picking it up and clasping his fingers with your smaller ones. Pulling it to your face, you press his fingertips against your hairline, dragging them down the side of your cheek and along your jawline. The sensation is intoxicating, the heat and arousal burning invisible lines across your skin.

You move his hand under your chin and further down your neck towards your cleavage, stopping just above where your bra clasps in the front. His hand drops just slightly, his thumb pressingly lightly against the plastic clasp. You feel a smile curling the corners of your mouth.

“Jeans,” you say definitively. He’s still wearing them, and you’re lying here in just your panties. Although he does seem a lot more desperate than you do, the way he’s trying to keep things moving along quickly. You reach out and smack his hip lightly. He twitches rather strongly at the touch, a muttered curse spilling from his lips as his erection jerks along with the sudden motion.

He’s quick to strip his jeans off, half-tugging his briefs down as he struggles to rid himself of his pants and unzip the fly at the same time. Seeing him so ridiculously eager to please you makes you feel light-headed with affection. You can almost forget that you’re still a little mad at him.

When he’s finished he stands at the foot of the bed, almost like a nervous teenager with the way he looks at you, pleading for you.

“Can I touch you?” he asks again, hesitant and breathless. The faint flush on his cheeks deepens in tone as you smile at him. You shimmy back into a sitting position, his eyes following the motion of your breasts as you do so. Propping your forearms on the tops of your knees, you slowly spread your legs, enjoying how his attention shifts southward.

He hasn’t even kissed you yet, and already you’re wet with anticipation.

“You can come kiss me,” you say, all business now.

Sebastian crawls up the bed till he’s kneeling between your legs. He braces his hands on either side of you so that his arms are brushing against the sides of your rib cage. Your heart is thudding maddeningly as he leans in, eyes intent on your pursed lips. He’s all around you, his warmth and his scent. You feel safe and protected when he’s close like this. It’s an instinctive feeling that comes from the firmness of his arms pressed against your body and his lips claiming your own.

This kiss is passionate; all lips and tongue and no teeth. He is giving everything you are willing to take from him, and you will gladly take it all.


End file.
